C’Est La Vie: Fact, Fiction, and Fantasy

By Marie Cunningham Davidson

As a child, Marie Cunningham Davidson was a Ten Pound Pom: a British citizen who immigrated to Australia with her family. On the fortieth anniversary of her exciting move from England to an unknown world, Marie began writing stories and poems that would eventually come to fruition as a thrilling collection.

Cest la Vie is fiction, but even fiction has elements of truth. Including snippets of information from the tapestry of Maries life, it would be impossible to leave the facts out completely. She creates stories with varied themes and characters, inspired by true events. Her recipe is a dash of fact blended with fiction, resulting in a delicious feast of words.

Within these pages find terror on the highway, a tale of ocean crossing, and poems about loneliness, depression, and autism. Through a mixture of poetry, dialogue, and essay, Marie expresses both deep emotions and light-hearted laughter. With the power to provoke, amuse, and inspire, this is a collection for everyone.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press AU
• Release date: May 31, 2018
• ISBN: 9781504313254

Marie Cunningham Davidson

Marie Cunningham Davidson dreamt of becoming a nurse, which she did, before moving into the rehabilitation field, where she assisted injured workers. She is currently at work on a full-length novel and several childrens books. Having found her passion for writing late in life, she believes its never too late to start.

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C’EST LA VIE

FACT, FICTION, AND FANTASY

MARIE CUNNINGHAM DAVIDSON

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Copyright © 2018 Marie Cunningham Davidson.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help you in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any of the information in this book for yourself, which is your constitutional right, the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-5043-1324-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5043-1325-4 (e)

Balboa Press rev. date: 05/30/2018

CONTENTS

Outback Terror

Ten-Pound Poms

The Immigrant Child, Forty Years On

Popping the Question, with a Difference

What Do You See When You Look at Me?

Autism

Flickering

Where the Outback Meets the Sea

The Tooth Thief

Captain Sweatpants

Loneliness

Winter Is Coming

We Won!

James, the Cognac, and the Wardrobe.

Deployment

Depression

Bipolarity

Alzheimer’s—Locked Inside

Disorderly Order of the Mind

The Lone Piper

I’m Not Perfect

PW the Extortionist

Alien Invasion

Take the Stairs!

I Spied a Yeti in the Bush today

The Fifth Child

My Amazing Dream

Autopsy Reveals

Karma

I dedicate this book

to my amazing mother,

Marjorie Cunningham, for her strength and determination against all odds.

9 November 1935 – 25 May 2018

Be mindful when it comes to your words. A string of some that don’t mean much to you, may stick with someone else for a lifetime.

—Rachel Wolchin

OUTBACK TERROR

INTRODUCTION

M elbourne is the capital city of Victoria, Australia. Australia is a large island continent, mainly inhabited along the coastlines. However, in Victoria and New South Wales, there are many regional centres and tiny townships which make up these states. There are also many long and lonely roads connecting the towns. My journey was about six hundred kilometres, from Melbourne to Mildura, one of Victoria’s largest regional centres. From there, I would drive another six hundred kilometres to Whyalla, in South Australia. The journey was mostly on quiet highways with not much traffic. I had made the trip many times previously but had never had a scary trip like this one before! This is based on a true story.

CHAPTER 1

THE JOURNEY BEGINS

I t was six o’clock in the morning when I left Melbourne. Half awake, even after three cups of strong coffee, I set off from home. I had arranged to spend the weekend with my sister Susan in Mildura. It was great getting together. Unfortunately, this was something we were unable to do often. When we did, we usually had a few glasses of red wine, perhaps a nice Merlot from an Australian winery named the Four Sisters (we are a four-sister family, so it was special), and a sing-song on the back veranda of her homestead in Merbein, just outside of Mildura.

Susan was the coordinator of a childcare facility, and her partner, George, was a primary school teacher. I was also looking forward to spending time with their two gorgeous kids, Toby and Jean. From Merbein, I was heading over to Whyalla, in South Australia, to catch up with the rest of the family.

I have no idea why I headed for Ballarat that day. It was probably a result of my being tired. Normally, I would travel this way to drive to Adelaide. So it may have been from habit. On the road, I was singing to wake myself up. Suddenly, I realised I was heading in the wrong direction. Instead of going west, I should have been travelling north. Quickly, I pulled over to the side of the road and turned on my GPS. Sure enough, I was heading for Ballarat, whereas I should have been heading for Bendigo. I’d now have to travel cross-country on very small, barely used roads.

I reached Newbury before travelling cross-country to get back to the original route and on to Highway 79, headed north to Mildura. This mistake had added two hours to my overall journey. Still feeling very tired, I pulled in to a roadhouse in the small town of Winchester for some brunch.

The sign informed me that Winchester had a population of 130. After ordering a sandwich and a drink, I asked the guy behind the counter if there were any parks in the town where I could go to eat my lunch. He said that there were plenty of parks in the town and that they were easy to find if I just drove around. Actually, he was a bit creepy. It wasn’t anything in particular that he’d said. He just creeped me out.

Settling back into my car, I drove around the town, which was deserted. It was forty degrees already, and the day was getting warmer by the minute. I guessed everyone was inside with the air conditioning turned up. There were numerous parks, but the picnic tables were right in the middle of them. The parks were really quiet and isolated, so I decided to eat my food in the car and then head off.

I had been driving for about fifteen minutes when I noticed a car in my rear-vision mirror. At first, the car followed at a distance, and then it commenced driving right up to the rear of my vehicle, before pulling off again. The car was green, but I couldn’t see much of the driver—just that he was wearing very dark aviator sunglasses.

I didn’t take too much notice initially, but after he’d tailgated me and then backed off five or six times, I got a bit nervous. I was on a quiet country road, with no one within cooee, so I felt isolated.

I decided I had to get rid of this pesky driver. Pulling into another roadhouse in the next small town, I ordered a coffee and a slice of cake and sat for a while. I allowed the nuisance driver to overtake me so I could resume my journey without the hassle of him following me.

CHAPTER 2

WEDDERBURN

W hile I had stopped at the roadhouse, allowing my nuisance driver to pass me, I tried to read his registration plates, but that was difficult because I didn’t want him to see my face. All I managed were the first two letters: RW. I did take note, however, that the car was green and was a Toyota, perhaps a hatchback.

A cup of strong coffee was in order—not this time to keep me awake, but to calm my nerves. This idiot had me a little rattled, I had to admit. After ordering coffee and a buttered finger bun, I sat and thought about what was happening here.

Not much really. Then why was I so spooked? This mystery driver had followed me for about fifty kilometres, tailgating me and then dropping back, over and over again. I tried to rationalise it. Probably some bored teenager was playing chicken with me for as long as he could get away with